Page 73 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Chase

Chapter Forty-Eight

W aking up after surgery feels like climbing through layers of fog, each breath bringing me closer to consciousness but never quite breaking the surface.

Voices filter in and out—medical terminology I don’t understand, the soothing tone of a nurse, and somewhere in the haze, Emma’s voice anchoring me to reality.

“Chase? Can you hear me?”

I force my eyes open, the hospital room gradually coming into focus. Emma stands beside my bed, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, dark circles under her eyes suggesting she hasn’t slept. Beautiful despite the worry etched on her face.

“Hey,” I croak, throat dry from intubation. “We win?”

She laughs, the sound chasing away some of the fog clouding my brain. “Yes, you idiot. You won. Don’t you remember?”

Fragments of memory return. The game, the goal, the block, the Cup. Holding thirty-five pounds of silver above my head while my knee screamed in protest. Emma rushing onto the ice.

“I remember,” I say, trying to shift position. Pain shoots through my left leg. “Shit.”

“Don’t move,” Emma commands. “Your leg is immobilized for a reason. The surgery was more extensive than they initially planned. ”

Surgery. Right. The knee I’d systematically destroyed over championship hockey. The price of the Cup.

“How bad?” I ask, finally fully awake and ready for the truth.

Emma takes a deep breath, settling into the chair beside my bed. “Do you want the sugar-coated version or the medical reality?”

“Since when do you sugar-coat anything for me, Anderson?”

She smiles faintly at that. “Fair point. The meniscus tear was complete—worse than the MRI showed. They had to remove rather than repair a significant portion. There was cartilage damage throughout the joint. Hairline fracture to the tibial plateau where the puck struck you. And enough fluid buildup to irrigate a small farm.”

Each diagnosis chips away at me, but I appreciate her directness.

“Recovery timeline?” I ask, the professional athlete immediately calculating return-to-play scenarios.

“Don’t even start,” Emma warns, reading my thoughts with unnerving accuracy. “You’re looking at six to eight months minimum before you’re back on the ice in any capacity. Maybe two months before walking without assistance. Physical therapy will be intensive and painful.”

The timeline sends a jolt of panic through me. “The wedding—”

“Is still happening,” she interrupts firmly. “Seven weeks from now, as planned. You’ll be on crutches, and we’ll have to skip the traditional first dance, but I’m still marrying you.”

Relief floods through me, though concern lingers. “Are you sure? It won’t be what you imagined. What you deserve.”

Her expression softens, and she takes my hand, careful of the IV line. “What I imagined is marrying you, Chase Mitchell. Everything else is just details. Besides, I’ve always wanted to sign a cast on our wedding night.”

A laugh escapes me despite everything, though it quickly turns to a groan as the movement jars my leg. “Not funny. And no cast, just an extremely sophisticated brace.”

“Even better. More accessible for the wedding night.” Her eyebrows wiggle suggestively, and I’m struck again by how perfectly she balances support with humor, concern with normalcy .

“So you’re not mad?” I ask, needing confirmation beyond the banter. “About the knee, about playing when I shouldn’t have?”

Her expression grows serious. “I’m not thrilled about the medical choices you made. The physical therapist in me is horrified. But the woman who loves you?” She squeezes my hand. “I understand why you did it. I saw your face when you lifted that Cup. That moment meant everything to you.”

“Not everything,” I correct immediately, needing her to understand. “Not more than you. Than us.”

“I know,” she says simply, and somehow, her certainty about this means more than any diagnosis or timeline.

A knock at the door interrupts the moment, and Dr. Reynolds enters, clipboard in hand, expression tentatively optimistic.

“Good to see you awake, Mitchell,” he greets, moving to the foot of my bed. “How’s the pain level? Scale of one to ten?”

“Four,” I lie automatically, athlete’s instinct to downplay injury still in full effect.

“Seven,” Emma corrects, throwing me a pointed look. “At minimum. He’s gritting his teeth every time he breathes too deeply.”

Dr. Reynolds chuckles. “And this is why we’re fortunate to have Ms. Anderson involved in your recovery. Honesty about pain levels is crucial for your medication management.”

I scowl at Emma, who looks entirely unrepentant. “Fine. Seven. Maybe eight when I try to move.”

“Expected, given the extensive work we did in there,” Dr. Reynolds says, making notes. “The surgery went as well as could be hoped, though the damage was more substantial than imaging suggested.”

He launches into a detailed explanation of the procedure—terms like debridement and partial meniscectomy washing over me in a wave of medical jargon that Emma seems to follow easily.

“What’s the recovery plan?” I ask.

“Aggressive but careful,” Dr. Reynolds explains. “Three days here for initial recovery and pain management. Then home with continued immobilization for two weeks. After that, we begin progressive weight-bearing exercises, range of motion work, and strengthening as healing permits.”

“Under my supervision,” Emma adds, her tone making clear this isn’t up for debate. “I’ve already spoken with the Wolves’ management about taking leave to oversee your initial recovery.”

This is news to me. “You’re taking more time off? Emma, your career—”

“Is just fine,” she interrupts. “The Wolves understand the situation. Jackson may have pulled some strings as captain, but they’ve officially granted me a three-month sabbatical for ‘personal family health matters.’ With the off-season upon us, the timing actually works well.”

The gesture—her putting my recovery ahead of her career—sends a wave of emotion through me so powerful it momentarily overshadows the pain in my knee.

“I don’t deserve you,” I murmur, not caring that Dr. Reynolds is still standing there.

“Probably not,” she agrees cheerfully. “But you’re stuck with me anyway.”

Dr. Reynolds clears his throat, clearly amused by our exchange. “I’ll leave you two to discuss the finer points of recovery romance. Try to rest, Chase. The more you sleep now, the better your body can begin healing.”

After he leaves, exhaustion crashes over me. Emma notices immediately, adjusting my pillows carefully.

“Sleep,” she encourages, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?” I ask, already feeling consciousness slipping away again.

“Always,” she assures me, the word following me into dreams.

The next time I wake, the room is dimmer, evening shadows stretching across the floor.

Emma is still there as promised, but she’s not alone.

My parents sit on the small couch beneath the window, and a large silver object occupies the corner of the room—the Stanley Cup, apparently making a return visit.

“There he is,” my father says, noticing my return to consciousness first. “Sleeping Beauty awakens.”

“Be nice, Robert,” my mother chides, though she’s smiling as she approaches the bed. “How are you feeling, honey?”

“Like I blocked a slap shot with my knee and then had surgeons carve it up,” I answer honestly, earning a snort of amusement from Emma.

I notice a figure on crutches at the back of the group—Tyler West, looking both awkward and determined as he navigates into the room with his own knee immobilized in a heavy brace.

“West,” I greet, genuinely surprised to see him here. “Didn’t expect you to make the trip.”

“Couldn’t miss congratulating the guy who helped us win the Cup,” he explains, maneuvering to the foot of my bed. “Even if you did steal my ‘most dramatically injured’ title.”

The joke breaks the tension, drawing laughs from everyone. Emma moves to help Tyler into a chair, her physical therapist instincts apparently extending to ex-boyfriends as well as current fiancés.

“How’s your recovery going?” she asks him, her tone professional but friendly.

“Ahead of schedule,” Tyler reports. “Doctor says I might be back for training camp if everything continues progressing.”

“That’s great. The team will need you with me sidelined.”

Just then, the door swings open and Coach Barrett strides into the hospital room. “Mitchell!” he booms, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Nice to see you awake. How’s our hero feeling?”

“Oh, just peachy,” I reply dryly .

He steps closer, hand resting on the Stanley Cup beside him. “About that, Mitchell. Team owners wanted me to deliver some news personally.”

My stomach tightens, mind immediately jumping to worst-case scenarios.

“Your contract extension,” Coach continues, pulling folded papers from his jacket pocket.

“Has been drafted by management. Three years, full no-trade clause, with complete medical coverage regardless of return-to-play timeline. They wanted you to know your position with the Bears is secure, no matter how recovery goes.”

I glance at Emma, but she doesn’t suspect a thing. I’ve been weighing my options with the Wolves, thinking about what comes after this season. It’s a conversation I’ve only had with a select few. Emma isn’t on that list.

“I’ll need to review it properly,” I say, appreciating the offer but not ready to commit. “A lot’s changed in the last few weeks.”

Coach nods. “Of course. Take your time. But just know that you are always wanted at the Bears.”

The relief is intense, a weight lifting that I hadn’t fully acknowledged was there. Professional hockey is brutal in its uncertainty. Injuries end careers, contracts evaporate, teams move on to younger, healthier prospects without so much as a backward glance.

“Thank you,” I manage. “That means… a lot.”

Emma’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently.